


Among the Living

by Our_Residential_Sociopath



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Elizabeth Holmes - Freeform, F/M, Mystery, Search, Sherlolly - Freeform, Sister - Freeform, St. Barts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-01
Updated: 2015-06-01
Packaged: 2018-04-02 09:11:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 11,254
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4054516
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Our_Residential_Sociopath/pseuds/Our_Residential_Sociopath
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A year after Elizabeth was murdered, Sherlock receives multiple clues to who and where her killer might be hiding....at least, that's what he thinks.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hope you like this one better. I put significantly more work into it than the other one.

In the Perspective of Dr. Molly Hooper 

It was a rainy day, much like the one last year. The day that started this spiral of depression in most of my friends' lives. Because, a year ago today, we lost Sherlock's sister.

The loss had been hard on all of us. Sherlock almost stopped working on cases all together, John has been almost absent from the hospital, Mycroft has been starting to almost decay, Lestrad hasn't taken any high-level cases in month, and as for me, I can't get my work done. I keep picturing its Elizabeth's the one on that table. That she's the one I'm cutting into and figuring out the cause of death. If only I could.

I sighed in the back of the cab I was taking to work as I watched the rain pick up out the window. I started tracing the streaks down the window; anything to keep my mind off the significance of today.

The cab stopped in front or Barts. I sighed once again as I paid the driver and climbed out of his car. I walked to the door, letting the rain stain my clothing and seep into my hair. It felt almost good. As if Elizabeth wanted me to forget.

"There's mail on your desk Dr. Hooper."

The words snapped me out of my trance. "Who's it from?"

"Don't know, I didn't put it there." The intern threw the words at me as he walked away.

All I could do was stand there and think. Who would hand deliver mail? To me? It was a good question, but then a thought crossed my mind that made me stop thinking and run, full speed, to my office. It can't be! Why would the man that murdered Elizabeth decide to re-surface now? On the anniversary of her death? Sherlock's not going to be happy about this.

I stopped at my office and slowly opened the door, expecting something to happen. But the blow never came, so I flicked on the lights to see a white envelope dead center on my desk. I walked around to my chair, never taking my eyes off the letter as I did. When I reached the other side of my desk, I let my bag fall to the floor and I picked up the letter with my name written on it.

In the Perspective of Dr. John Watson

The loud knock at my door woke me that morning. I squinted, adjusting my eyes to the light. I opened my eyes and sighed, remembering the date. I barely knew Elizabeth Holmes, but she'd meant so much to all of us, once we were told who she was, that her death became the most tragic thing I ever heard of.

I got out of bed, careful not to wake Mary or our daughter, and started for the front door. I took my time getting down stairs, feeling the sadness that almost lingered in the air.

I'd heard, technically, Elizabeth died on the morning of November 2nd, but wasn't pronounced dead until November 3rd. Why'd she pick today to have us cry, mope, and remember?

I sighed as I reached the bottom of the stairs. "He misses you, you know," I said to nothing, hoping, wherever she was, she was listening.

I turned to the door and opened it. I felt the chill of the rain, I heard the wind start to pick up, but I saw no one. "Stupid kids," I started to whisper under my breath until I looked down. And there on my mate was a piece of cloth, but that's not what caught my eye. As soon as I saw the piece of worn clothing, I saw the red initials, one set crossed out and the other even bolder than the first.

"It can't be." I reached down for the shirt as I read the bolded print and my eyes grew wide. I stood up, holding the shirt in my hands and clenching my teeth together. "Not today."

In the Perspective of DI Gregory Lestrad

I sat in my office. I knew it was early, but I wanted to be alone. The date was November 3rd, 2014. It was 5:36am. And today was the anniversary of the day I declared Elizabeth Holmes dead.

I've been seeing images from the crime scene for the past month, but today, today was the first day in a while I saw the image Donovan had taken at the bottom of the river. I remember seeing the small body, beaten and bruised, face down in the sand. We didn't bring the body to the surface, we couldn't. Not because Sherlock was there. Not because we had just figured out she was a Holmes. But because we knew what it would mean if we brought her up. It would mean she'd be dead, and we didn't want that.

I sighed and through my head back. Sometimes, I really do hate this job.

Just then I heard someone running through the numerous cubicles and into my office. "Sir, you need to see this."

She sounded urgent, but today wasn't the day to be urgent. "Not today Donovan."

"Greg, you're gonna want to see this."

I picked my head up and snatched the photo from her hands. I really wasn't in the mood for…

My eyes immediately shoot up from the picture and onto Sally. "Does Sherlock know?"

Sally shrugged and folded her arms across her chest. "How should I know if the freak knows? He's been bloody gone for months now."

I smirked. "Then we better hurry."

She returned my grin and retrieved the keys from her pocket. "After you."

In the Perspective of Sherlock Holmes

The room was dark around me as I lie in my bed, trying to sleep. I couldn't help but let my mind wonder as I drift off, and that was the problem. Now a days, every time I try to sleep the images keep coming back to me. Images of the abandoned dock that night, images of the elderly man holding the gun, and, finally, images of my sister chained up and broken.

I shook my head and turned to my side. For once in my life, I wish I could stop thinking. I was so tired of seeing the haunting images of that dreadful night, hearing the gun shot, the glass shatter, and the single splash in the river. Hearing my only sister scream as the pain overtook her…

"Sherlock!"

My eyes flashed open, but Elizabeth wasn't there. It was only a dream.

I could see the phone on my night stand flash to life. Incoming text no doubt. I sighed as I reached for the phone. Maybe it was Lestrad with a new case. Maybe it was Molly asking me how I was. Or maybe it was John giving me his condolences.

But, I was wrong it was all three. And all three texts said the same thing: 'Get to Barts now!'


	2. Evidence

Sherlock stepped out of the cab and watched the car pull away. He sighed as he looked to the roof where he stood four years before, ready to jump. 'Why today?' He slowly walked the short distance from the curb to the side entrance that led directly to Molly's office.

As he stepped inside the frigid basement of the hospital, he saw his three friends circled around Molly's desk. "What's going on here?" He almost demanded it.

Molly turned away and watched as Sherlock walked in. She saw the rain that beaded down his face and couldn't help but think he looked so fragile standing there.

"Well?"

Molly shook the thought from her mind before looking back at Sherlock. "We found something. All of us, and it's something you need to see." She walked closer to him, studying the stern, almost hurt, look he wore. "Can I get you some coffee?"

At that his face melted into a small grin. "That'd be nice." And with that he watched her walk out the door as he hung his coat up to dry. He ran his fingers through his hair, brushing out the excess water, before walking up behind Lestrad and John, who had closed the gap between them as soon as Molly had left it. "What's so important? Why did I need to be bothered today?"

John and Lestrad turned around to see the almost hurt look on Sherlock's face. John took a step towards him and put his arm around his friend's shoulder. "We called you in, mate, to look at this." John led Sherlock to the desk and saw the change in his friend's expression.

"You found him?" Sherlock through the question at Lestrad in disbelief. He'd been searching for the past year to find the man that killed his sister, but with no luck.

"Not before he left us these." Lestrad gestured to the note and the shirt sitting on the desk and watched as Sherlock's eyes widened as he reached, snatched up, and pulled the note closer to him.

Sherlock read the note over and over again in his mind before slamming it back down onto the desk in front of him, making John and Lestrad look at him, and making Molly jump behind him. "This doesn't make any sense."

"And what would that me?" Lestrad shot Sherlock a look, but Sherlock ignored it.

"How could he know all this?! If he would have been following me for the past year I would have known! I would have…"

But he stopped when he felt Molly's hand on his back. He turned around to see coffee spilled down the front of her lab coat. "I couldn't imagine what you're going through right now, Sherlock, but please; we need you."

Sherlock took a deep breath and turned around once again; his hands hitting the table as soon as he was facing the items. "Why would he do this?" The question was only a whisper on his lips, but everyone heard it.

"Maybe he didn't."

Everyone in the room looked at John as he scratched his chin and stared down at the objects on the desk. "Maybe Elizabeth's still out there. Maybe she wants us to find her."

Lestrad and Molly shared an uneasy glance. They both saw the body, they just didn't want to say anything; not knowing how Sherlock might react. But the uneasiness quickly subsided as Sherlock lifted his head and turned to face John.

Sherlock sighed a miserable sigh. "Imposable." He let his eyes fall onto the desk once again. "I saw her, at the bottom of the river. She's gone."

Lestrad perked up and looked at Sherlock, wide eyed. "How the bloody hell do you know that?"

Sherlock chuckled, never lifting his eyes off the desk. "Sometimes being me comes at a price." Sherlock stood up straight and headed for the door. "I need to know everything, but there's somethings I just don't need to know." He reached for his coat, but stopped again once he felt Molly's touch.

"There's more."

Sherlock looked into her eyes and, at the moment, saw nothing but lost hope. "That won't bring her back."

"What if I say it's at the crime scene?" Lestrad through a second look Sherlock's way, and this time it caught his attention.

Sherlock's eyesight moved to Lestrad and examined the sly look on the DI's face. "Show me."


	3. Message

The sun was high in the sky as Sherlock, John, Molly, and Lestrad arrived at the pier. Sherlock stopped in his tracks and studied the building he was about to walk into.

Molly was the second to stop when she noticed Sherlock was no longer beside her. She looked over her shoulder and smiled before turning back to the two walking further into the crime scene. "I'll catch up!" She didn't even bother knowing if they heard her or not. She just turned on her heels and walked back up the slight incline towards Sherlock.

Once she reached him, she turned to see what he saw. "It looks the same," she looked up at him. "Don't you agree?"

Sherlock didn't answer. He just stared at the shelter with the storm door down and an eerie red glow coming from the inside. "It does." He slowly began to walk down into the scene, leaving Molly behind. "Come along Molly," he said as he crossed the threshold of the building.

Molly ran to him, struggling to keep pace with him; but finally, she managed to fall into step. She sighed, not wanting to look forward. "We're going to be okay, won't we?"

Sherlock grinned as he peered down at her. He looked into her eyes and saw nothing but sadness. "We'll be fine." He picked his eyes up and looked straight towards the end of the dock. "If he's dead then our lives can go back to being normal."

Molly stopped in her tracks once again. "But they won't be," she whispered to herself as she watched him walk closer to the body of the man who murdered his sister.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXO

Sherlock sighed as he saw the man hanging there, much like Elizabeth had been the year before. 'Why today?' It was a perfectly good question, but he couldn't answer it. Not when there's work to be done. He stepped under the yellow tape and walked up to John and Lestrad, who were looking at the body. "She was hung up just like that."

John and Lestrad turned around to see Sherlock staring at the body. Lestrad smiled and chuckled a little. "That's not why I brought you here."

John and Sherlock looked at Lestrad. "Then why are we here?" John's eyes went from Lestrad to Sherlock, searching for an answer.

It was Sherlock who gave it. "Where's the other message?"

Lestrad chuckled again as he reached into his coat and pulled out a photo. He held it out for the two to see, but it was Molly that spoke. No one had noticed as she wedged herself between Sherlock and John, so they were surprised to hear her thin voice. "We will meet again." Her stare seemed puzzled as she read the words written in blood. "I promise."

Sherlock stared at the photo, wide eyed; he was frozen and everyone had noticed.

John was the first to speak. "What are you thinking, Sherlock?"

Sherlock ruffled his hair. "It can't be." He reached for the picture and snatched it from Lestrad's hands. 'This can't be happening' "It's just… impossible."

"What is Sherlock?" Molly sounded frantic. As if she knew if she didn't speak up, Sherlock would be on that loop for hours.

Sherlock handed the picture to Molly, allowing her to study it before he lowered his arms, taking the picture away from her sight. "What did you see?"

It only took a couple seconds for Molly to gasp in realization. "They're the same words from the note!"

Sherlock grinned slightly as he looked at her. "Which tells us?"

John snapped his fingers. "That there's a second killer."

Sherlock nodded, but his grin was no longer present on his face. "That's the more likely possibility." His hands were folded, and they immediately went to his chin once his head had stopped nodding.

Lestrad perked up as he stared at Sherlock, watching him think. "Dare I ask what the other is?"

Sherlock let his arms fall to his side as he took a deep breath. "There is the slight possibility that my sister is more capable then I ever gave her credit for." His ace was blank as he stared at the three faces staring back.


	4. Maybe

In the Perspective of Sherlock Holmes

I sat in the darkness of my flat that night; not wanting to go anywhere, not wanting to be bothered. Today has been a trying one, for me that is.

Why is it that this day hurts so much? Is it because of the rain picking up out my window? Is it because of the strong winds that were menacing the streets of London earlier today? Or was it because the youngest Holmes, whom we didn't even know about, died tragically just last year?

I ruffled my hair, trying to get the thoughts out of my head. Thoughts of that horrid night, thoughts of the past year, and thoughts from today.

I sighed. This past year had been an awful one, no doubt. The funeral had been a bit much, but Mycroft had protested; saying nothing was too much for our sister. And then came the months after. All that time I had spent searching; I'd been a fool to think she could be alive, even after all I've seen.

I threw my head back as I heard footsteps on their way up the steps. Mycroft, no doubt, come to ask why I'm not at the cometary. I closed my eyes and exhaled. "Come in, Mycroft."

I heard the door swing open and my brother hobble over to the chair opposite mine. He's been getting worse, you know. His health, his spirit; they've all been decaying ever since I've told him.

I forced myself to pick up my head and look into the withered eyes that were once strong with power. "What do you want Mycroft?"

He sat up as straight as he was able to before speaking. "You really should be at the service. Mother and Father are beginning to notice your absence."

I stood up and walked over to the window; I felt his eyes on me with every step. I leaned against the wall that allowed the window to pop out from the room. "I can't go."

"Can't or won't?" I felt him stand up and walk up behind me, a little anger in his step.

"Trust me when I say I can't." Those were all the word I could muster before I felt a tear roll down my cheek; I wiped it away quickly. "Now, please leave me."

"I'm not going anywhere without you, brother mine." He took a step closer and I felt his hand find my shoulder. I really hope he doesn't regret his next sentence. "You know, you weren't the one that killed her."

He said it as it were almost a fact, but I knew it wasn't and it would never be. "Of course I killed her." I swatted his hand away as I snapped. "I was there, Mycroft! I was there and I couldn't do anything." I turned on my heels to see the sorrow on my brother's face. "I could have done something! The only reason she's dead is because I was weak!"

I watched Mycroft's eyes flicker as he took a deep breath. "What shall I tell Mother and Father?"

I sighed, trying to calm myself down. "The truth, they'll understand." I started to walk away, but wasn't able to leave the room until Mycroft spoke again.

"They want to see you."

I stopped, but didn't bother turning around. "Tell them they'll see me on another occasion, just not today." I started walking again, not knowing or caring if he left or not. I just want to be alone.

I walked into my bedroom and headed straight for the wardrobe in the corner. I opened it and reached inside, pulling out a red leather-bound book. I sat down on my bed and opened it. My days at Cambridge. The pages were now starting to yellow with age, but I had preserved the content not long after its owner's death.

I flipped to the first page to see an all too familiar picture of Elizabeth and me the day before I left. I stared at the photograph, not daring myself to look at the haunting text that lie beneath it. Why didn't I listen to her? If I did then none of this would have happened. She wouldn't be dead, there wouldn't be a killer on the loss, and I'd have one of my oldest friend back.

When had I started to cry? I don't remember. I wiped the tears from my face, clearing the path for new ones, just as I heard my door open for the second time that night. "I told you to leave me alone, Mycroft."

But it wasn't Mycroft who stood at the door, it wasn't Mycroft looking at me with such sad eyes, and it wasn't Mycroft who was watching me cry.

I stared at Molly for the longest time, and she stared back; both of our faces washed with pain and pity. She was the first to move closer to me, her black dress swinging with every step until she sat down next to me and put her hand on my thigh. "It'll get better, I promise."

I ripped my eyes from her and placed them back onto the photo. The tears started flowing again as I read the sentence I told myself not to read. "How do you know what will happen?"

Molly picked my head up and turned my attention towards herself. "I found some dried blood, on the dock." She was crying now. Her hand fell onto her lap as I picked up mine and wiped the tears from her face; she shouldn't have to cry for me. "There's enough to do a DNA analysis. Maybe she's alive after all."

I held her face as I stared at her. I took a deep breath. "Maybe." I dropped my hand. "Just maybe."

I sounded cold, that's probably why she held me. We sat like that for a long time, until I noticed Molly fell asleep on my shoulder. The sight of her made me chuckle as I closed the book in my hands. I lifted her head off of my shoulder and laid her down in my bed. I made sure she was warm under the blankets before kissing her on the forehead and whispering, "Thank you."

I quietly made my way to the living room, not wanting to allow myself to sleep in my bed with her. Besides, I wanted to think. Maybe Molly was right. Maybe Elizabeth is still alive.


	5. Comfort

In the Perspective of Dr. Molly Hooper

I was swimming in the river. It was late, I couldn't see a thing as I dove under the water. Thank heavens I had a flashlight, I wouldn't be able to find the body if I didn't. As it flickered to life, I swept it across the river's floor until it finally found what I was looking for.

To my surprise Elizabeth's body was completely intact, even after a year of laying at the bottom of the Thames. I popped the butt of the flashlight in mouth as I reached for the body, but as my hands got close, the body started to move. I jumped back a little as I watched Elizabeth try to stand and when she did, I could clearly see the monster that stood before me wasn't Elizabeth.

The creature's teeth were sharp and its eyes a devilish red. It grinned at my, showing off its yellow teeth. "Get out." It didn't even sound like Elizabeth; its voice to rough to belong to her. "I said get out!" That's when it started chasing me.

I couldn't move, I was frozen with fear. So, I screamed. "Sherlock!" I screamed his name over and over again, hoping he'd come to save me. But as I felt the slimy hands grip onto my arms, I realized I wasn't getting rescued.

But the monster never bit me, he was shaking me. I couldn't help opening my eyes to see Sherlock kneeling over me, his hands gripped tight onto my arms. "You were having a bad dream." He got off of me and sat on the bed.

I propped myself up on one arm. I'd been sweating and crying in my sleep, all because of the dream. "Thank God it was." I looked over at Sherlock, he looked so beautiful sitting there in the moon light. I could have stared at him for hours, but I decided against it. "I was horrible! There was Elizabeth, but she wasn't Elizabeth. And…"

I stopped talking once I felt his arms around me, the warmth of his chest on my face, and his strong hands as he held my head to him. If I hadn't been so frantic, I might have turned red. "It was just a dream." He gave me a kiss on my forehead as he pulled away and stood up off the bed. "You should get some sleep, it's still early."

I didn't want him to go, but there he was, almost out the door. "Sherlock?" He was half way out the door when he stopped and turned to look at me. "Can you stay?" I didn't want to explain, not then.

A sly smile crossed his face as he stood there, chuckling slightly. I must have looked pretty pathetic, because next thing I knew he was crawling into bed next to me. I moved over, giving him his room to sleep and then laid back down myself. I turned away from him. "Thank you." I closed my eyes, but opened them once again as I felt his arms around me. I looked up at him wondering why. Why was he doing this?

"Comfort. It helps with things like this."

And that's when I realized, Sherlock was talking about himself. He was in pain and he needed help. I smiled as I turned around and held him. He was stiff in my arms, but he soon loosened the tension in his muscles. He rolled onto his back and I put my head on his chest before closing my eyes.

XOXXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOOXOXOXOOXXOXOXOXOXOX

I woke up to the sunlight burning through my eyelids. Is this why Sherlock never slept? I buried my face into his chest, shielding my eyes from the light, but I didn't go back to sleep because I felt Sherlock wake up.

I felt his eyes on me as I lay. What was wrong? I didn't think much about it before picking my head up and staring into his deep blue eyes.

Something was wrong. His gaze was solid as a stone as he looked into my eye. He placed his hand on my cheek and heeled me face. "I'm sorry." He dropped my face and slid out of bed, leaving me dumbfounded.


	6. Memories

Sherlock had been sitting in the darkness of his flat, just as he did two weeks ago. Not much has changed; he still wanted to be alone, he still wanted to forget, and he still was haunted be the memories of the past year; especially the memory of just two weeks ago.

He acted foolish on the eve of the memorial service. He hadn't meant to violate Molly like that, just as he hadn't meant to violate Elizabeth years before. 'Shows what good emotions do for me.' His head feel into his hands just as he let out a low groan. How had he fixed that situation before? He remembered blaming it on the drugs, but how was he to fix it this time around?

He sighed as he stood up. He went to retrieve his violin and took his place by the window as he played. The tune was a sad one; the very one he played at his sisters funeral the year before, the one he spent hours composing for here, and the one that brought such good memories.

One memory in particular stood out from all the rest. He closed his eye and it was almost if he was transported back in time to his last term at Cambridge. He felt the warmth of the early summer sun seep through his shirt as he lay in the cool green grass on one of the many lawns the campus had to offer. He looked over and saw Elizabeth looking out onto the river. She looked like an angel in the sun, but he'd never admit it; after all, back then she was just a 17-year-old girl. But now, that 17-year-old girl was gone and all that remained was an old scrapbook of memories and a family she had never known.

As he remembered, he didn't notice the door creeping open and John walking into the room, his face full with concern. "Lovely tune," he stated as he sat in his burgundy armchair; the one Elizabeth had been sitting in just months before.

Sherlock had stopped playing at the sound of his friend's voice. He turned and grinned slightly as he went to take his place across from John. "Yes, I suppose it is."

John sat back in his chair as he watched Sherlock set his violin down at his feet. "So, exactly where have you been for the past two weeks?"

Sherlock rolled his eyes at John. "Whatever do you mean? I've been here."

John leaned forward in his seat, bringing his elbows to rest on his knees, and he shook his head. "No; if you've been here why haven't you bothered contacting anyone? Why hasn't Mrs. Hudson heard from you in days? And why has Molly been insisting it was all her fault?!" He hadn't realized his voice had gotten louder as he asked the final question. He shook his head, calming himself before turning towards his best friend for answers.

Sherlock shrugged. "I didn't want any distractions…"

"From the case?"

Sherlock let out a low chuckle. "Something like that; yes."

The room then grew silent as Sherlock went back to his thoughts of Cambridge and Elizabeth. He closed his eyes and was brought back to those days. This time he found himself in Elizabeth's room. The room was so clean whenever he visited and he was so thankful for that fact. He sat on the edge of bed as flipped through chemistry notes taken in Elizabeth's hand writing. She sat next to him, flipping through an oversized chemistry book. She looked so carefree sitting there next to him. That's when he remembered the music that often filled her room, and flashes of them dancing together hit his memory.

"That's an interesting tune."

Sherlock's eyes flashed open when he remembered John was still there. "It is, isn't it?"

"Where's it from?" John leaned forward in his chair, trying very hard to get Sherlock to open up. "I've never heard you play it before."

"Yes, well," Sherlock shifted in his seat before standing up, looking down at John as he stood. "It's from Cambridge." Sherlock picked up his violin and headed for his place at the window. "My last term to be precise." Sherlock began playing the tune as he stared out the window, watching the rain slowly stop.

John stood up from his chair, feeling as if he shouldn't force Sherlock to share more. "Well, I'll be off then." He started for the door, but stopped as he remembered the last thing he had almost forgotten to do. "Oh, and Sherlock? Molly told me to inform you that the test results had come in."

Sherlock hummed in amusement. "Tell her to fax them over to Scotland Yard; should be there sometime in the next week"

"Will do." And with that, John was gone.


	7. Not our Database

Sherlock had burst through the doors of Scotland Yard almost a week later; having taken extra time to hide the events of the past deep inside his mind palace. Today, his face was stern and emotionless as he made his way to Lestrad's office.

As he stepped out of the lift on the correct floor he seemed to be on a mission and all eyes were on his as he walked through the line of cubicles. As he passed, Donovan and Anderson were looking at each other, frowning; knowing the reason behind the visit. Donovan rolled her eyes away from Anderson. "I'll get it," she exclaimed before walking off in the opposite direction of Sherlock.

Sherlock walked into Lestrad's office and sat down in a chair on the other side of the DI's desk. He looked at the man sitting opposite him, a newspaper covering his face. "Lestrad you know why I'm here. Can you just put the paper down and can we get on with it?"

Greg quickly folded the paper and placed it on his desk. His eyes locked with Sherlock's as he leaned forward in his chair. "You're late," he said sternly as he stood, never breaking eye contact. "You were supposed to pick up the results five days ago. What happened?"

Sherlock watched as he circled the room to stand by the door. When Lestrad had stopped moving, Sherlock faced forward, putting his hands in a steeple position in front of himself. "Mind palace needed a bit of work."

Lestrad made a face at him, but then shook it. "Unbelievable…I'm not even gonna bother." "Still, Sherlock! We don't even know what to make of this…information."

This caught Sherlock's attention; He shot out of his chair and immediately turned his attention to Lestrad. "How can't you handle a simple DNA test!? All you've got to do is run the strand through your criminal database!"

Lestrad grinned just as Donovan walked in holding a manila folder in one hand. She looked slightly angry as she looked into Sherlock's angered face. "And which strand did you want use to run exactly?"

At this, Sherlock's face went blank; his attention never lifted from Lestrad. "…But I was informed of only one"

"Well Happy Christmas!" Donovan slapped the file down on her boss' desk as she made eye contact with Sherlock. "Sorry about your sister." That's when she stormed out, leaving both men watching her as she walked away.

"Sorry," Lestrad said as he made eye contact with Sherlock. "She's gotten a bit…frustrated over all this."

Sherlock rolled his eyes in pity. "Sentiment," he spat out the words as he sat back in his seat. "Did you happen to run both sets of DNA through?"

"Well, that's the part we aren't getting." Lestrad walked over to the file on his desk and flipped it open.

Sherlock looked at the test results that lie on the desk in front on him. Quickly, he read through them. His eyes then fell on the paper behind the one he was looking at. He retrieved it from the document from the file and studied it. It was exactly the same, but with one difference. This paper was informing whoever read it that there was no DNA match in.

"There's no match." The DI's voice made Sherlock look up to face him. "The DNA isn't in our database."

Sherlock looked back at the document, reading it over once more. "So the old man did have a friend." Sherlock stood, placing the document on the desk as he did. "One with no criminal record."

Lestrad nodded as he watched Sherlock head for the door. "Meaning we have a murderer on our hands."

Sherlock grinned quickly. "In that case, fax me that information. If there's a murderer on the streets, I'll be the one to find her."

"How'd you know we're looking for a woman?"

Sherlock stopped in his tracks halfway in between the elevator and the DI's office. He peered over his shoulder to see the questioning look on Lestrad's face. "DNA suggests a female culprit."

That's when Sherlock turned and walked away. Once he got out of the lift, he had opted to walk back to Baker Street in the dark and think as silence engulfed him; but no matter what he thought about, he always came back to one question. He looked up at the sky, seeing the faint glow of stars among the city lights, and wondered. "What is she trying to tell me?"


	8. Break in

In the Perspective of Sherlock Holmes

The first rays of sunlight shined through my eyelids as I was woken from my slumber. It wasn't odd for me to be up this early, but it was odd for me to be at my kitchen table; using the case files Lestrad had sent as a pillow.

I sat up in my chair and before I even opened my eyes, I knew something was different; something had changed overnight. It smelled different; not so much of chemicals, but of a mixture of vanilla and lavender. The flat also felt cold and there was a slight breeze coming from the window above the sink, which hadn't been open the night before. All signs of a break in.

My eyes sprung open, expecting to see what the thief had left behind. But what I didn't expect was my flat being in the same condition as I had always left it with the only difference being the now faded scent of perfume and the breeze coming from the window I had never opened before.

I stood up and immediately closed the window before taking a look around my flat. Nothing was taken, which was odd. Still, I retrieved my phone from atop the pile of books on my desk and phoned John. "John, there's been a break in at Baker Street."

"Not another one," he exclaimed. "What'd they do this time?"

"It appears she did nothing. Still, I'd appreciate a second opinion. Be here in 10 minutes." I hung up, not waiting for him to reply. I buried my phone deep in my pocket before taking a second look at my flat. The only thing I saw from where I was standing was the door to my bedroom was no longer opened.

I just stood there and stared at the door, wondering who could be inside. Irene Adler? She's the only one who ever willed pulling something like this; but it couldn't be her, she'd be incarcerated if she was ever seen in London. My dead sister? Even if she is alive, which is highly unlikely, she'd never place herself in my bed waiting for me to come looking. Then again, she is my sister after all.

I walked over, slowly, ready to open the door as I reached it, and expecting to find someone inside. But to my disappointment, I found no one. I shook my head as I stared into the empty room, just as I heard the door open and John walking in.

"Sherlock," he sounded winded, probably ran up the stairs. "Where are you?"

"Back here John." I heard him come up behind me before I even finished the sentence' my eyesight never being taken off the room as I spoke. "Thought someone might be in here."

"Why?"

I let go of the door knob. "Door was closed. I don't keep my bedroom door closed."

John peered into the room as I stood there still looking for something out of the ordinary to catch my eye, but John just happened to find it first. "What's that?"

I looked over at him, not even bothering myself with following his line of sight. "What are you seeing?"

"On your side table," he straightened his back a little. "There's a note."

I looked over to see the small piece of paper in my bed side table, neat cursive writing sprawled across the page. I walked over and retrieved it from its resting place. I silently read it to myself as John simple watched on from the doorway.

"You really should read that out loud, mate."

My eyes went from the note in my hands to him and back again. I cleared my throat and started to read. "Mr. Holmes, I thought I'd be caught by now. You're slipping; so I thought I'd give you one last little present. Consider it an early Christmas gift. Hopefully, this time, it won't go to waste." I felt myself get mad as I crumpled the piece of paper and threw it to the floor before walking back to the other side of the room, towards the door.

John's eyes followed me as I left the room. "So, what's the clue; what else did she leave?"

I sat down in my chair in the sitting room; my hands folding and going directly in front of my face as I did. "I told you she didn't. All that seemed different about the flat other than that note was the open window above the sink where she escaped and the hint of perfume as I woke up."

John now sat on the chair opposite mine. "Would the brand of perfume tell you who it was?"

"No." I leaned forward in my seat, resting my elbows on my knees, and made eye contact with him. "I don't know of anyone who has ever worn that particular brand."

John sighed before standing up in a hurry. "Well maybe that's the clue."

My eyes followed him as he headed towards the door. "I really doubt it."

He stopped at the door and turned around to face me as he retrieved his coat from the hanger. "Well than find another one. In the mean time I have to head in to work. Think you can handle this without me?"

I grinned slightly and he seemed to understand what I meant because he grinned back. "Good, I'll be off then."

And just like that he was gone, leaving me to my thoughts.


	9. Voice

Molly was in the locker room at Bart's, packing up to leave for the day. As she opened her locker, a small piece of paper slipped out and floated to the floor. She watched the scrap as it feel and, once it did, she picked it up. "Who would put a not in my locker? It's a bit juvenile." As her eyes went to read the beautiful cursive writing on the note her eyes popped. "Call Sherlock."

Her face was blank as she read the words over and over in her mind. "But, no one ever calls Sherlock." She sighed as she placed the small sliver of paper down in her locker and picked up her phone. Soon after she dialed, she put it on speaker after she took her lab coat off; she was alone after all. As the ringing of the mobile filled the room, Molly was placing her coat in her locker and taking her bag out. That's when she froze…

"Hello, this is Elizabeth Holmes…"

Molly quickly hung up the phone and slammed her locker shut, not believing what she had just heard. That's when she ran out of the locker room, up the steps, and out of the hospital. She flagged down a cab as fast as she could. Once one had pulled up to the curb, she swung the door open and hurried inside. "Baker Street; and hurry please!"

Ten minutes later, Molly was paying the driver and running towards 221. She pulled the door open and hurried up the steps, avoiding Mrs. Hudson as she was cleaning in the front. "Sorry," she had called down to the elderly woman as she reached the top of the stairs. Without even a second thought, she rushed into Sherlock's flat.

When Molly had gotten inside, she started breathing heavily, finally willing herself to stop running. "Sherlock," she managed in between breaths.

Sherlock look up from the piece of paper he was holding to see Molly just beyond his open door looking rather distressed. He placed the paper down on his lap and stirred in his seat. "What is it Molly?"

Molly looked up to see Sherlock sitting in his seat looking rather distressed as well. His eyes were becoming dark with sleeplessness and his curly locks looked dull in comparison to his pale face. "I found something."

Sherlock sighed as he rested his elbow on the chair's arm. "Go on."

Molly walked over to the chair opposite and plopped herself down, happy she could rest her legs. Once seated she went into her large, yellow hand bag and retrieved her phone. As she started navigating to where she needed to be she stopped once she felt Sherlock's eyes on her. She looked up to face him, seeing she was right in her assumption. "Sherlock? Is there a problem?"

Sherlock had his eyes fixed on her, a blank look on his face. He wanted so very badly to bring up the events of a few weeks ago. It was now December 9th, meaning they hadn't seen each other in well over a month. He leaned forward in his chair and dismissed the thought, they were only distraction after all; besides, maybe she had found something important. He could tell that was the case with the look of urgency now casting over her face. He opened his mouth to speak, but quickly closed it as she began speaking.

"Look, Sherlock, what had happened the night of the memorial is in the past and is between you and me. It won't be spoken of; you have my word."

Sherlock took a small breath of relief as he looked into the small pathologist's eyes. "How did she know?" He sat back in his seat, never breaking eye contact. "Thank you, Molly. Now, please do continue."

Molly felt the blood rush up to her face as a slight blush appeared on her cheeks. She coughed and looked back down at her phone. "Well I found this strange note in my locker…"

"What exactly do you mean?"

Molly looked up from her mobile and blinked a few times before answering. "Well it was just a sliver of paper. It said to call you, so I thought it had just been John."

"But not so much anymore." Sherlock raised his eyebrow as he continued to look into Molly's eyes.

"Well," Molly's eyes then dropped back down to her phone, her finger ready to press Sherlock's number. "All until I heard your voice mail." She looked up and saw the confusion on Sherlock's face as she dialed the number and put the call on speaker.

After a few seconds of ringing the flat grew silent for a few seconds and Sherlock began to sit straighter and straighter and Molly's smile grew. That's when the room was filled with the small, high toned, and almost whisper-like voice of Elizabeth Holmes.

"Hello, this is Elizabeth Holmes. I'm not available to speak at the moment, but just know, the game is on Sherlock."

When the message cut out Molly stared into the blank, emotionless face of Sherlock Holmes. Now, she knew what he must have been thinking; which is why she found herself leaning forward in her seat and placing her hand on his. "Sherlock," she paused, waiting for his eyes to meet hers. "When you were gone, it took Mycroft months to track you down when you didn't want to be found."

Sherlock cocked his eyebrow once more at her. "What is that supposed to mean?"

Molly sighed and retreated back into her chair. "It means, Sherlock, that she wants to be found now and she wants you to do it."

Sherlock had put his elbows on his knees as both his arms and his head fell. "But I've tried…"

"So…" Molly stood up and went over to him. She knelt beside his and lifted his chin for him to look at her. "It took us over a year to track you down. Did you really think it was going to take four month to find her?"

Sherlock kept his head up once Molly had removed her hand. She had been right and he knew it. He grinned slightly as he looked at her. "Well then, we should do as she says." He stood up and walked towards the kitchen.

Molly's eyes followed until he stopped at the counter. She stood up and turned her body towards his direction. "And that would be?"

Sherlock picked up his phone and pressed it to his ear. "The game, Dr. Hooper, is back on."


	10. MI6

It had been a week since Sherlock had heard his sister's voice and the events that occurred after were probably hurried even Sherlock himself had trouble keeping up. After he and Molly had listened to the recording, he had phoned Lestrad, saying that he needed the Yards help to locate Elizabeth. He spent the next couple days at in the lab with Molly doing voice analysis, DNA tests, blood work, and much more all to confirm that it was Elizabeth at the dock, she was taking care of herself, and that she was mentally stable.

By the time December 15th came around, it was a week before Christmas and Lestrad's men were still searching. Sherlock had finished collecting data and was losing his patients when John had walked into 221b carrying a photograph. "Sherlock," he said as he waved the photo in front of his face. "You're going to want to see this."

Sherlock had stopped playing his violin and threw it onto his sofa. "Did those idiots finally find something," he said as he walked over and took the picture from John's hands. He studied the image with a blank expression.

The photo was of Elizabeth walking along the street in Downtown London. She was wearing black lounge pants, a blue holiday jumper with some sort of dog drawing on it, and a gray knitted scarf. Her now thick, black hair was blowing freely in the wind and she looked as though she was becoming ill.

This was all the push Sherlock needed to lose the small bit of patients he had left. The next morning he hailed a cab to Mycroft's office. On the ride there thoughts of losing the target again were spinning around in his mind. He had looked all over Europe for her and Scotland Yard had gotten a picture within the span of six days. Molly was right, she does want to be found; doesn't mean she's making it any easier.

As the car stopped, Sherlock paid the driver and got out; immediately walking into the government building in front of him, in route to Mycroft's office. Once he reached it, he didn't waste any time; he made his way in.

Mycroft was sitting behind his desk, reading the paper, when Sherlock walked in. He folded his paper in half and put it on his desk as he sighed. "Honestly, Sherlock, it is six in the morning. What do you want?"

Sherlock walked up to his brother's desk and set his hands down with a smack, staring directly into Mycroft's eye. "As much as I loath asking, brother dear, I need your help."

Mycroft sat back in his seat and grinned, placing his hands in the steeple position in front of his. "My help? Why, it is Christmas. And, may I ask, whatever for?"

Sherlock didn't speak. What he did was reach into his inner coat pocket and retrieved the photograph he was given just the day before. He slide the photo over to Mycroft, face down. Once it had come to rest and Mycroft picked it up, Sherlock closed his eyes and did not open them again until he heard a small and sudden gasp coming from his brother. "Recognize her?"

Mycroft's eyes lifted from the photo and onto Sherlock. "This person shouldn't exist."

Mycroft's words were cold on Sherlock's ear. He grinned slightly as he took the photograph out of his brother's hands and replaced it in his pocket. "Technically, I shouldn't either."

Mycroft relaxed again in his chair as he sighed. "That was different; you had help."

"She must have too."

Mycroft sighed before leaning forward in his chair, resting his elbows on his desk as he did so. "How long, bother dearest?"

Sherlock turned his back to Mycroft and began to wonder away. "She started contacting us over a month ago." He reached the book case and stood before it; he let his fingers run along the bindings. "The messages were…clever. Had no idea it was her until just last week." He pulled out a book and flipped it open. "I'm thinking she didn't want anyone to find her until recently."

Mycroft watched as Sherlock walked back to his desk reading his first edition of Les Miserable, a favorite of both of theirs. He pushed away from his desk, crossed his legs, and cocked an eyebrow. "And where do I fit in in all this?"

Sherlock snapped the book shut and grinned at his brother. "Considering I am talking to the head of MI6, I thought they might be an asset."

Mycroft's eyes opened wide. "You cannot be serious?!"

"Mycroft," Sherlock snapped. "I've looked all across Europe after she died with no luck! We've had some of Scotland Yard's finest looking for the past week for a girl that isn't even trying anymore!" He slammed his hands on Mycroft's desk before looking at his brother dead in the eye. "We need you!"

Mycroft stood up and smiled devilishly at his brother. "Brother mine, always leaving me to clean up his messes."


	11. Up to Us

It was early afternoon on Christmas Eve as a black car pulled up to a rather large farm house in the country side. It wasn't often that the two Holmes brothers shared a car to their parents, but today they made an exception so that they may discuss what must be done.

Mycroft was the first to step out of the car shortly followed by Sherlock. The two walked up to the door, not moving very fast and speaking to each other in hushed tone "I'm telling you they'll find her on time."

"But how do we know?" Sherlock rang the doorbell as he asked the question that has been haunting him for days now. "If we tell mother and father she'll be here and she doesn't show up, they'll be heart broken. Do we really want to…"

"Happy Christmas Eve boys! Come in." Violet Holmes gestured for her two sons to enter her home, which they did, and she closed the door behind them. "Thank you boys for coming all this way. Your father and I are leaving in the morning on holiday and we felt so bad about cancelling Christmas dinner."

Sherlock and Mycroft followed her into the kitchen where they sat down at the table while their mother cooked. The room was silent, but the two brothers were shooting each other looks; still debating on what to tell their parents.

That is until they all heard the door open and shut. Mrs. Holmes turned away from her pot on the stove. "Sir, your sons are here."

And just like that, Mr. Holmes appeared at the door; a smile on his face. "Hello boys," he then turned to his wife. "Violet I'll just be upstairs finishing up with the luggage."

Violet rolled her eyes as he disappeared. "Your father has been on about this trip for month now." She turned the stove off and walked over to the table close to where Sherlock was sitting. "Ever since last year he's been insisting on a trip." She giggled a little at the thought. "I finally let him have his trip and now he won't hush up about it."

Mycroft let out a chuckle as he leaned forward in his seat. "Actually, Mother, about last year…"

"Mycroft!" Sherlock threw daggers at him with his eyes. "I thought we had discussed this."

"Discussed what?" Violet's eyes went from Sherlock to Mycroft and back again. She opened her mouth to speak, but was interrupted by the ring of Mycroft's phone.

Mycroft put up a hand as he dug for his mobile. Once he retrieved it from his jacket pocket he answered. "Mycroft Holmes speaking." He rested his hand on the table again. "Yes, that is very pleasing to hear. Now the question is, do you have her?"

Sherlock and his mother exchanged glances before their sights were set back on Mycroft, who was now looking angry.

"What do you mean, she got away?" Within seconds he shot himself out of his seat with rage. "You shot her! The orders were to capture her unharmed!"

As Mycroft was listening to excuses, Violet looked at Sherlock and got very close to him. "What's he going on about?"

Sherlock gulped. He knew what he had to tell her, but he didn't like it. "We found her."

Violet looked astonished as her eyes went to her eldest son.

"Alright," Mycroft finally managed to say. His hand was on his forehead in attempts to calm himself down. "I'll be right over." He hung up the phone and replaced it in his pocket before he turned to Sherlock. "We're needed."

Sherlock nodded at him before turning to their mother who nodded as well. "Bring her home."

That was all they needed to be out the door and on their way back into London. On the ride home Mycroft had called off MI6 due to their mistake and Sherlock told the Yard to stop looking as well. They knew, either they find her or no one ever will.


	12. Sanctuary

Molly sighed as she walked through the doorway that led to the waiting room at Bart's. Sometimes, she really did hate her job; especially when enough doctors call out and she has to pick up the slack. "Rael people are more important than the dead." As the words spun around her head she looked down at the clipboard in her hands, scrolling through the list of names she had to attend to. But before she could say a word, it happened.

In the blink of an eye, Molly saw the scene play out, and she stood there, frozen, as it did. She watched as a young woman ran in the hospital doors and up to the front desk. Her blond hair was very dull, her purple eyes were not shining, her skin was paler than anything she had ever seen, and her breath was so heavy and labored Molly wasn't surprised when she saw the woman fall to the floor, but that's not wasn't what shocked her the most. For when the woman's head hit the floor with a sickening crack the blond wig she was wearing gave way long, flowing nest of raven black hair.

Molly's hand went to her mouth as she stood there in shock watching as nurses ran over to help the now unconscious woman lying in the middle of the floor. "No way is this happening." Molly ran over and knelt down besides the girl, but before she could examine her, the journal she was holding caught her eye. She took it from the woman's grasp and started flipping through it. "Ladies, check her eyes for contacts."

Just as Molly was reading over the first couple entries in the journal her eyes grew wide. She wasn't even surprised to hear someone yell over to her, "She's wearing colored contacts."

Molly shut the book in her hands and looked over at the girl everyone has been searching for. She looked up at a nurse as she held Elizabeth's arm in her hand, searching for a pulse. "Get Dr. Watson. Tell him we found here." Molly stood up as she watched the nurse run in the opposite direction. "Prep this woman for surgery. She's very dehydrated and has a bullet stuck in her leg." She walked away as the nurses were putting Elizabeth onto a stretcher. "Now I have to make a phone call…"

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

Sherlock was standing in his dark flat playing his violin by the window. He barley even noticed his phone go off on his desk next to him. He sighed as he threw the violin on the sofa and picked up his mobile. "Molly? What do you want?"

"Sherlock, a patient just came in wearing a blond wig and colored contacts."

Sherlock shifted over to the door, only half listening as he pulled his coat on. "What did she look like under the façade?"

"Like a bloodied female you."

"I'll be right over" Sherlock hung up his phone and shoved it deep into his pocket as he ran out the door.

XOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOXOX

John walked out of surgery an hour or so later. There was blood on his gloves and sweat on his brow. He didn't even have the chance to take off his gloves and wash up before Molly ran up to him; her face filled with concern. "How is she?"

"Seems like she'll be fine." John walked over to the sink and began to wash up, never taking his eyes off Molly. "She woke up briefly after surgery, but she's out cold now." He grabbed a paper towel and turned to face his friend as he dried his hands off. "She's being taken to a recovery room as we speak."

"Would it be okay if I took Sherlock back?"

John chuckles as he tossed the paper towel in the rubbish bin. "He's already here?"

Molly nodded. "Yeah, I phoned him when she came in." She giggled before continued. "I actually had to send him out, he kept insisting on observing the surgery."

John let out a laugh. "Well, if he's back, take him over to room nine." He began to walk away, but then he threw one last glance at Molly. "And tell him to phone Mary."

Molly gave a quick nod before taking off in the opposite direction to get Sherlock and tell him that his sister was okay.


	13. We Met Again

Sherlock was slouched in his seat as he waited for someone to come tell him his sister was alright. So far in the hour and a half span he was there he went to the bathroom twice, paced around the room six times, bothered Molly to be let into surgery three times, he even went to the shop around the corner once to get some water for himself and a stuffed pug for Elizabeth; that breed of dog had always been her favorite.

As he stared into its sown on eyes he heard footsteps approaching him. He looked up from the small toy in his hands to see Molly looking down at him. He sat up straight, sat the toy by his side, and looked up at the pathologist. "Where is she?"

Molly smiled. "Follow me, I'll show you."

As she started to walk away, Sherlock got up, stuffed toy and half finish water bottle in hand, and followed her through the long corridor of recovery rooms. They walked in silence as they slowly made their way past each room.

Sherlock could see the room at the end of the hallway on the left, it was the only door that wasn't open. "That had to be her room; to keep people from seeing her, to keep people from knowing she was still alive, or maybe it was to keep John and Molly focused on their work. After all, it isn't everyday someone is brought back from the dead." 

They stopped at the last door on the left, but before Molly could open it, Sherlock started to speak. "Before we go in, can you possible prepare me for what I'm about to see?"

Molly sighed as she let go of the door knob. "I was hoping you wouldn't ask." Her smile melted away as she looked into Sherlock's eyes. "She has bruises and some gashes all over her body. She also has a bullet wound in her right thigh. When she came in she was severally dehydrated and lost a nice amount of blood." She shook her head as she rested her hand back on the doorknob. "I really don't think that's enough to prepare you though."

As she opened the door, all Sherlock could see was darkness and the blinking lights of a respirator. He just stared at those blinking lights as Molly turned on the lights, finally allowing him to see his sister. His face paled as he studied her. Her visible skin that was surrounded by black-and-blue marks was almost as white as paper compared to the hospital gown she was wearing. Her face looked thinner than normal. And her hair was dull, almost lifeless.

Molly had been right, Sherlock didn't know if he could handle it. He stared with a blank expression, trying to remember the girl that lay in the bed. He didn't know what to do next until he felt a small, warm hand in his own. He looked down at the small pathologist now smiling up at him; he must have looked broken to her.

"Let me." The two words were all it took to get Sherlock to follow her over to his sister's bed side. There were two seats, one for each of them. They sat down both of them staring at the girl they thought just two month ago no longer existed. Molly turned to face Sherlock, her smile warm as she stared into his eyes. "Sherlock," she sounded fragile as she said the word, not wanting to upset him. "This is your baby sister, Elizabeth Amelia Holmes." Tears began to roll down her cheek. "And right now, she needs you to be strong for her."

Sherlock grabbed Molly's hand, which caused her to look into his eyes once again. "I never got the chance to thank you for helping me, with everything." His voice was almost a whisper on her ear, but Molly smiled.

She leaned over and hugged him as she cried. At first, Sherlock didn't know what to do, but after a while he relaxed and at started smoothing out her mousy brown hair. "This is alright. This is definitely alright." A small smile appeared on Sherlock's face as his eyes traveled from the mousy haired pathologist to the broken down girl on the bed next to him.

Suddenly, he felt overjoyed. He no longer cared why she was running or why he wasn't told earlier, he just cared that she was alive and safe and that he didn't have to search anymore. Life would go back to normal; he would go back to his cases and she would finish out law school, graduate, and become a successful lawyer, just like she's always wanted.

"But what if I don't want to now." Sherlock hadn't heard that voice in his mind palace for years. He closed his eyes and saw her standing there in her bedroom back at Cambridge. "What if, since I've known the truth, I changed my mind?"

Sherlock stepped forward, reaching his hand out to touch her but not daring himself to. "What do you mean Elizabeth?"

Elizabeth wagged her finger at him. "Think, Sherlock. I've always wanted a family, what do you suppose I'd do when I find out my brother solves puzzles for a living?"

His eyes grew wide after he thought for a bit on the question she was presenting. "That's why you went into criminology law. You want to be a puzzle solver too."

She giggled at his remark. "Well not exactly, but I do want to assist one."

Before Sherlock could answer, he was snapped back into reality. Molly was no longer in the room; he was now holding a different hand and taking the pulse of a different girl. He looked into his sister's face, her eyelids ever so slightly fluttering open.

Elizabeth looked at him through her barely opened eyes and smiled weakly. She knew she was going to pass out soon enough, so she had to think of just two word. Two word to sum up her thoughts, her feelings, and her plea of forgiveness. She knew those two words, they're once she's heard many times in the past year. She opened her mouth weakly, her throat still dry as she finally formed those words on her lips.

"Miss me?"

And then everything went black.


End file.
